


Our Sammy

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, post-2.08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-20
Updated: 2009-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene suspects the worst of Sam, and only wants to help, but there is more to the story than Gene ever bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Sammy

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise for this fic was provided by walkerbaby in her fic [](http:)Sleuthing for Sammy. A little plot development that she came up with for that fic – that Gene believes ‘little Sammy Tyler’ is, somehow, his D.I.’s illegitimate son – totally captured my imagination. This is the result; not quite angsty, definitely not slashy, and a bit too wordy. Ah, well. Really, it’s rather pointless, so bear that in mind as you read it. *fail*

**1973**  
Gene only saw the child for a few moments at that wedding, but he knew. Instinct was part of it, of course, but more than that: same last name, hell same name completely, a beautiful mother whose husband was on the road most of the time, and that smile. That triangular, loopy grin that was at turns angelic and devilish. It was Sam’s smile, Sam’s eyes, hell it was a miniature Sam and Gene did not need more proof than that.

But he got more proof, at Sam’s flat no less. Gene noticed the photo appear on the shelf without ceremony or comment, and Gene knew who it was even with that constable helmet dipping down over his face. Gene was fairly certain that Sam nicked the photo but he could not blame a father too much for so little.

During all his ramblings about ‘going home’ and how much he missed his family, though, not once even when pissed off his arse did Sam ever mention a son. Did not take a brilliant mind to figure out why: Sam did not have a son, he had a bastard. Not really a bastard, of course, because the boy’s father obviously thought it was his despite the child lacking even a slight resemblance to him. Whatever the case, the boy was Sam’s and neither Sam nor Ruth Tyler was anxious to make that fact known.

After Vic left town and that whole fiasco was behind them, Gene assumed that Sam would look up the fine Mrs. Tyler and re-assert privileges. Clearly Vic and Sam were related somehow and obviously this was the reason Sam set up shop in Hyde for so long, to stay out of the way, and probably with good reason from what Gene saw of Vic. It was just as clear, though, that Vic – for all his would-be criminal mastermind ways – did not have a clue about Sam. Secretly, Gene wrote off part of Sam’s desperate actions concerning that man to fatherly concern for the boy: if Vic left, Sammy (Jr.) would be on his own. Gene actually respected that motivation on Sam’s part, however much of a lunatic he was about it in the end.

However it just made sense that Sam would return to the family fold, so to speak, now that the path was clear, but he did not. It confused Gene at first but then he realized, as Sam’s awkward attempts with Annie became more and more painful to watch, that Sam was simply not that good with women. Good enough, clearly, or he would not have a bastard walking around with his face and name, but he was not husband material by any stretch, he was just too used to being independent. He played the needy boyfriend card a lot but when it came down to it, he always cancelled dates and walked out of supper and did not return phone calls because of work. Reminded Gene of himself, to a degree, but Gene was smart enough to know that a working man needed a wife in the house to keep operations running and perpetuate the family name.

Well, he had to admit that Sam solved _half_ that problem, in a way that was insidiously clever. Only Sam could get a “Jr.” without having to put out for a ring first.

In any case, Gene decided there was bad blood between Ruth Tyler and Sam, enough to keep him clear of her and his own son at all costs. Gene pitied him that, because he knew someone as sensitive as Sam would take that as a hard blow. Sam never talked about wanting children, and Gene now suspected it was because it hurt too much to think about a son he already had but could not acknowledge. Gene would not have been so silly about it himself, but Sam was more the brooding kind, especially if the bad blood was his fault which Gene did not doubt at all.

Gene’s first instinct was, as always, to solve the problem. Find a way to patch up Ruth and Sam and get a nice family dynamic established there. Sam needed that kind of stability, and for all that Annie was a good girl she was a career woman (Gene could just scream at that, but there you go, women’s lib finally caught him in its teeth) and not wife material. Ruth was pretty but most importantly she knew the drill: take care of the house, take care of her man, take care of the children. And if Gene got them back together, well for sure there would be more children – who could say no to piece like that in his bed?

Of course that lead him to the biggest problem: Obviously Ruth had an affair with Sam, which meant she was the kind of woman who _had_ affairs, which on second thought was not such a good thing after all. Especially for a copper’s wife. Marrying Ruth would be the only way Sam could adopt his son, though, because Ruth was certainly not going to offer up that kind of admission, not if she was a smart bird.

It was a stalemate, with Sam left out in the cold and his bastard son now fatherless. Gene hated feeling helpless, but in this case, he was not able to figure out what he could do.

For several weeks he mulled on the problem, always thinking in circles back to the same useless conclusions. Sam was oblivious to Gene’s torment, or at least acted that way. Gene once tested the waters by throwing off a comment about Ruth Tyler’s long legs and Sam flushed red in embarrassment and then anger and Gene would have sworn Sam was defending the honor of his own sister. It at least confirmed for Gene that Sam was emotionally invested there somehow, no matter how much he tried to make like he was not.

Gene was detouring down Ruth Tyler’s last known address when it hit him. If Sam ever had a legitimate son, then he surely would make Gene the godfather. Stood to reason. Who else? So if he would do that, then theoretically Gene _was_ little Sammy’s godfather already. And if the boy’s father was, somehow, unable to care for him, well then it would fall on the godfather’s shoulders to bear the burden. Gene came to a stop outside the flat, which was now rented out to a different family, and realized with crystal clear horror that he had just talked himself into all but adopting the boy himself.

He was not exactly certain how to explain this to the missus.

Or Sam.

As he drove off to perplexed looks from the residents, Gene lit up a new cigarette and wondered about how to take care to Sam’s son without making it look like the boy was his OWN bastard. His mind reached back and pulled up a plot, some idea from a book, where some cop was once helped out of a bad spot by a kid, and then that cop secretly put the kid through school. Dickens, _Great Expectations_. He remembered that. But no, it was not a cop, it was a criminal, not so good but it was Dickens, after all, so the idea could not be that bad. In fact since Gene was a cop, he was de facto improving on Dickens’ idea.

Not that having a brilliant idea gave him any clue as how to do it.

First he corralled PC Harper into tracking down Ruth Tyler. That took two weeks; she was working at a small grocery, living with her sister Heather in a flat that Gene would charitably describe as ‘reduced circumstances.’ Gene drove by a few times and saw Sammy Jr. running around with some big, angry looking orange cat in his arms, and damn if he did not look more like Tyler every day. That sealed his resolve in the matter and forced his hand.

His first stop was the Missus. Despite his assertion to the contrary, he married her more for her brains than her tits, so there was no way that woman would not pick up on something going on. He told her the truth, and she was naturally suspicious, but Gene had a cure for that. He finally invited Sam over for dinner and it was pleasant and forgettable enough, although she did tend to coo over the man a bit much for Gene’s liking, and they spent too much time in the kitchen exchanging recipes like girls. Gene sometimes wished Sam would make up his mind which side he bat for.

The next day Gene took her on a drive by past Ruth Tyler’s, and his luck, the boy was out front kicking a football against the wall. His missus stared silently at the miniature Sam Tyler with her lips pursed, disapproving, and trying to reconcile the circumstances with the polite and professional man who joined them for dinner the night before. Gene told her it did not matter, that Sam would fix it if he could, he believed that, and so now it was up to Gene to do it for him. She did not respond other than to cluck about it and nothing more was said. That night when he got home late from the pub Gene discovered that a large slice of black forest gateau was left out for him and he knew that was her blessing to his mission.

He found a solicitor who owed him a favor and from there it was easy. They set up a fake ‘trust fund’ for Sam Jr. that was bequeathed to him by an ‘anonymous relative.’ All very dodgy but Ruth Tyler was not exactly a worldly woman, and would probably ask all the wrong questions. The brief told Gene that she did just that, coming to the not outrageous theory that her missing husband Vic Tyler set this up in case something happened to him. Gene gnashed his teeth about that but let it stand, figuring that if she even suspected this came from the direction of the boy’s real father, she would flat out refuse the money. By the third meeting with the lawyer, though, she finally believed that little Sammy’s basic living expenses were covered, that she would never have to worry about buying him food or a wardrobe or books. Maybe Sammy (Jr.) would not go to the exclusive schools, but he would have a permanent address and new clothes every year and tutors if he needed them and eventually a chance to move up without having to quit school to take care of his mother, which was Gene’s biggest worry.

Every Christmas holiday Gene sent an anonymous gift via the brief to Sammy (Jr.), usually some kind of police-themed toy because after all, his _real_ father was a copper. It was a bit silly, he knew it, but Gene could not stop himself from the paternal urge to push to boy into the ‘family business.’ Gene cherished (but would never admit) a small hope that there might be a time, if they lived long enough and the boy knew how to take a hint, that Sam would walk down the halls of GMP Headquarters and run into his son, and be proud of him. That idea alone kept Gene committed at all costs, despite knowing that his own involvement would always be unrecognized. He never did anything for the glory anyway – not his job, not his marriage, not this. Gene took pride in that, at least, and hoped the ghost of Charles Dickens was taking notes.

**1976**  
Three years later, Gene suddenly realized that he never sent any birthday presents. The missus mentioned something about D.I. Tyler’s immanent encroachment of the ‘big 40’ and Gene stalled in the kitchen, and when he told the missus why, she nearly whipped him senseless with a tea towel. Gene knew boys take birthdays seriously, always anxious to become men (until they _were_ men, then they tried to be boys again…exceptions like Chris notwithstanding). He called the solicitor on the phone while his wife stood in front of the stove refusing him supper, and after a couple of seconds of explanation accused the man of lying.

“Hunt, April third is the boy’s birthday! Why would I lie?”

“Can’t be.”

“It is. I’m looking at his file right now.”

“Impossible!”

“…Hunt, as always it is nothing like a pleasure talking with you. Good night.”

The line went dead. Gene harrumphed into the phone before hanging up. Gene shook his head as his wife eyed him narrowly. Count on the picky pain to have his own son born on his _own birthday_. Naturally. He wanted to yell at Sam for being too damned efficient, but he knew he could not do it. Wanted to, though.

Later that month he bought Sam a very nice single malt scotch and Sammy (Jr.) a boxed set of Famous Five books and felt very pleased with himself as a beaming Mrs. Hunt served up a second helping of lamb. And yes, he admitted to the missus when she teased him: it _was_ pretty damned efficient.

**1979**  
It was Sammy (Jr.)’s tenth birthday and Gene was flummoxed. The boy was too old for toys and too young for a real gun (not that Gene ever would, but he enjoyed the idea of it – up until he got a good sized welt on his shoulder from where the missus whacked him, because she was “Ninja with the tea towel” as Chris would say, and not amused by Gene’s initiative). He finally resorted to asking around at the office for suggestions on what might be a good present for a ten year old boy (a “nephew” he was always careful to point out) but nobody had any really good ideas, at least not good enough to impress Gene, much less a ten year old boy.

“Not a football?” Annie asked as Gene stood uncomfortably in the hallway with her.

“Football? For what?” Sam asked, pulling his own Ninja routine by appearing from nowhere.

“For kickin’ up yer arse! Ya nosy git!”

Annie laughed, unflustered by Gene’s bellowing after six years. “Guv’s looking for something for his nephew’s birthday.”

“Nah, not a football. Everyone does that.”

“What then, momma’s boy? You got a better idea?”

Sam straightened up and glared at him. “Sure. When I was ten my dad sent me a bicycle. I remember because it was one of the best gifts I ever got. Black and white, like a cop car. It was beautiful.”

Because it _was_ a good suggestion, Gene just glowered, but Annie frowned.

“I thought you said your father ran out when you were young?”

Gene narrowed his eyes and zeroed in on Sam, who shifted uncomfortably.

“…He did…just, for years afterwards, I’d get these anonymous presents for my birthday and Christmas. Mother always said it was just from a nice relative who did not want to embarrass us, but I always assumed they were from Dad.” He shrugged. “They probably weren’t, based on what I know now…” Sam added thoughtfully, gazing off. Gene could not do anything but stare at him for a second before rallying.

“An’ what he get you for your ninth?”

Sam’s expression tightened. “I don’t remember everything.”

“Remember something.” Gene ordered, and Annie stepped backwards in surprise.

Sam’s eyebrows went up and for a moment he looked ready to argue, but then he shrugged again. “I think I got a police constable’s uniform costume one year, when I was really young – then a set of Famous Five books, and one Christmas it was a Bobby’s kit. It was always cop stuff, as if whoever gave me the presents knew I wanted to be a detective when I grew up…” Sam smiled, remembering. “Even got a model cop car kit…took me a week to put it together.”

It was the previous Christmas, in fact, when Gene gave that exact item to Sammy (Jr.). Gene knew his expression was NOT one of calm reserve, more like thunderstruck disbelief. Sam’s own expression turned to confusion.

“What?” He asked defensively, crossing his arms.

At a loss for words, Gene shook his head and stomped off. It was impossible, and was not going to humor an impossible idea. He decided the last thing he was going to buy that year or any year was a black and white bicycle, no matter what.

Later than night, he stood in his living room, facing off with the offending object. “WHAT is this!?!” He yelled, pointing at it. His wife bustled in happily.

“Oh! It’s for our little Sammy! I saw it, and it just reminded me of a police car and I knew you were having problems with deciding what to get our boy this year and Cousin Angie got one for her boy Ralph so I thought they could go riding around town together and…”

“Our Sammy does not know Cousin Angie’s Ralph!” Gene yelled for emphasis.

“Well he might, you know, if they are riding around town together on bicycles. I mean really since that poor Mrs. Tyler finally got them their own flat, they only live six blocks over from Angie, and not even that far from my sister…”

“We do not discuss your sister!” Gene continued to yell, although he felt himself falter.

“No, YOU do not discuss my sister, YOU are the one who broke her set of Hummels when you knocked over the display case last Christmas. Anyway her boy James is just two years older than Sammy and he just goes _everywhere_ on his bicycle with Ralph and…” Her voice petered out as she went back into the kitchen, still talking.

Gene fumed, but now it was out of his hands. He let the birthday roll by and refused to think about the ridiculous matter until a month later when the brief called.

“I thought you should know…just seems too peculiar, given the circumstances…” The man hemmed and hawed.

“What?” Gene snapped.

“Sam Tyler.”

“Boy in trouble?” Gene sat forward, surprised. So far Sammy was a model student and never been seen to step out of line anywhere. Gene’s heart sank a bit, wondering if this bad news was the start of a trend, and if he was going to have to get more personally involved to keep Sammy from delinquency.

“No, no; I meant, D.I. Sam Tyler. Same name and…errrr…he does rather look like…”

“Finish that thought and you’ll be pickin’ teeth out of yer brain.”

“Anyway, he came around, very unofficially, trying to find out if Ruth Tyler is a client. I refused to answer of course, but he was…persistent.”

“Crazy is more the word. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” Gene hung up.

Gene could not figure out how Sam linked the brief to Ruth Tyler, other than the unpleasant idea that he stalked her and saw her visiting the office as some point. Whatever the case, it was not a good development, and Gene knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. He knew Sam would not break under interrogation, although Gene toyed with the idea, so Gene decided on plan B.

That evening he proceeded to get Tyler rip roaring pissed. He dragged him back to Sam’s new flat and plied him with another double shot. As Sam swayed on his couch, Gene picked up the photo of the boy, which had progressed through the years to live in a nice, stylish frame.

“Meanin’ to ask: family?” Gene shook the photo in front of him.

Sam frowned. “No.” He stopped, then answered again. “Yes.”

“So family but not family.” Gene put the photo back, his assumptions thankfully confirmed. When he turned back he saw Sam sitting with his eyes closed, still nodding. Gene snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Oi! Talkin’ here!”

“Bike. For my birthday. Saw him riding it last week.” Sam’s eyes barely opened as he talked.

“Yeah. Bike. So you watching them, then?”

“No. No. It’s just what you said, last month….reminded me. Just wanted to see…if I remembered…”

“How’d you find them, Sam?” He talked softly, trying to draw him out.

“Remembered. Remembered…the address. First address I remember.”

Gene shook his head. “No, how did you find Ruth Tyler and her boy?”

“Told you!” Sam snorted and sat back. “I loved that bike. Rode it everywhere.”

“You got a bike to?”

“No, that _is_ my bike…but Dad did _not_ buy it for me. He left….don’t know…”

“Someone used to buy you presents,” Gene said, prompting Sam even as his brain was telling him to stop, that he did not want to know. Never stopped him before.

“Yeah. Presents…school supplies…clothes…was this trust fund someone left me. Mom drew on it every month…let mum get us a flat and stay there, not changin’ schools every time we had to run out on the rent…” Sam waved his hands around, confused. “This solicitor…NOT Dad. I know it.” He nodded, certain, but still looking lost.

Gene sat down with a thud, the impossible idea forcing itself into his brain and taking shape. “Bicycle.” It was the only word he could manage.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Rode it everywhere. Met one of my best friends…Ralph…an’ his cousin James was older, but he took us all over the city. Only times mum let me out of her sight. Didn’t have much to do with them at school, but they didn’ care, you know boys. We loved our bikes.”

Gene just nodded, speechless at last. Sam awkwardly tried to lay down, failed, and crumpled up against the arm rest.

“Sam?”

“Unmph. Gwat?” Sam talked into his elbow.

“What was yer mum’s name? You remember?”

“Ruth. Ruth Virginia Tyler. Pretty…she is so pretty…I miss her…”

Sam was dangerously close to becoming a sobbing sponge of a man, so Gene got up to get him a glass of water for him to drink, or to dump on his head, as required. He pushed it into Sam’s hand and Sam looked at it, perplexed.

“Drink it, you ponce.”

“I am not gay.”

“Figured that out from yer boy wandering the streets.” It was a last desperate measure to ward off The Impossible Idea, and while Gene did not want to stoop this low, he decided he had to.

“What?” Sam squinted at him, genuinely confused, which was not the reaction of righteous indignation that Gene was hoping for.

“Yer son. ‘Sam Tyler.’ Boy who just got a bike for his birthday.”

Sam stared at him, sobering up instantly. “My son?”

Again, not the raging denial that any normal man might be spouting at that point in the conversation, and Gene was genuinely unnerved by that.

“Yer bastard! That boy you got with Mrs. Vic Tyler. And don’ try to tell me he ain’t yours, he’s a spittin’ image.”

“OF COURSE he’s a spitting image! He’s ME!” Sam pointed at himself and Gene felt reality sliding away like it did when he was very pissed, which he currently was not. Sam stood up, weaving but determined. “Me! My BIKE! Not my SON! You idiot! I don’t have bastard children…I’d never have an affair with a married woman! What kind of man do you take me for?”

“A man can’t be in two places at once, Sam, can’t be ten and forty on the same day.”

“Well I AM!!!” Sam yelled and fell back down on the couch, exhausted by the effort. And then, something happened. Gene could not place it, but Sam shifted and changed and closed up and suddenly did look very much like a young boy, utterly terrified. He stared straight ahead. “I didn’ say that. Okay? I didn’ say that. Just forget it…”

“Can’t.”

“Please, Gene, I’m pissed, I don’t know what I’m sayin’. Yeah, yeah, he’s my boy, my son. That’s it, you found me out…”

“Don’ think so.”

“No other excuse, is there? You said it, can’t be ten and forty on the same day.” Sam was talking clearly, not quite sober but nowhere near as drunk as he was thirty seconds before. Something scared him, terrified him, snapped his brain awake and flooded him with self awareness and caution.

“No.” Gene admitted, leaning back into the couch.

“…the only reasonable explanation is that he’s my son,” Sam said somberly, looking at the wall, his skin still flushed from the alcohol but his voice becoming more and more certain as he spoke.

“That is exactly the assumption I’ve been working on for six years now.” Gene sighed, tipping his head back, accepting the fact that there was no way to both get a sensible answer and escape this admission.

Sam stared at him carefully before asking. “Six years?”

“Six.”

“Keeping track…”

“Got to. Birthdays n’stuff.” Gene pulled out a cigarette and stared directly at Sam, who went white as a ghost.

“…_you_? You set up the trust fund?”

“No trust fund. Just send what I can every month, let the boy’s mother draw on part of it. The rest goes to a bank account. For university. Got to plan ahead.”

“You?” Sam whispered.

“He’s yer boy, Sam, and I could see plain as day that you had reasons not to take care of him. Told the missus you would if you could, an’ I believe that.” Gene pulled a long drag on his cigarette. “I think.”

Sam shook his head. “Oh, god, no.”

“Yes, an’ God got nowt to do with it. Although maybe He does. You say the boy is _you_ and that is insane, except for the fact it just might be true. Spittin’ image, could be yer younger twin. Everythin’ you told me…the gifts you got, your mother’s name…it all adds up, but it don’ make sense.”

Sam was silent a while. Finally he sighed. “I does, really. Make sense, I mean. It makes sense. I can’t explain it, but it makes sense.”

“This got anythin’ to do back when you heard voices and yelled at ghosts in the bogs?”

“…ghosts?”

“That’s what Chris said. Ghosts in the bogs that only you could see.”

Sam laughed, sounding drunk again. “Somethin’ like that, yeah! What, ghosts of crims gone by?” Sam nearly giggled, fully back into his alcohol. Gene smiled.

“Sommat like that. Me, I always just thought you were one bus stop short of the funny farm.”

Sam quieted down. “Closer to the truth.”

“So you gonna explain, or I got to beat it out of you with another bottle of scotch?”

“A man can’t be ten and forty on the same day, Gene.” Sam nearly whispered, staring at his drink. “Anything I tell you now…you could use to get me thrown out of the service. Committed. Locked up.” Sam looked up at Gene, his eyes piercing. “If I admit how insane I really am, what choice do you have?”

Gene pursed his lips, understanding Sam’s concerns. It was an impossible idea and any explanation Sam might give would work well on Dr. Who but not in CID. An idea so impossible only a crazy man would dream it up.

“Tony Crane.” It was all Gene said, and all he needed to say, and Sam looked both furious and shattered at the same time, but did not reply for a while. He sucked in a large breath of air.

“I tell you, Gene, an’ there’s no goin’ back. You can’t pretend you don’t know. You’ll ‘ave to believe me…or destroy me. An’ I can’t see a reason in the world for you to believe me.”

Gene narrowed his eyes. “I do.”

Sam let out a surprised huff. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sam waited, then squirmed impatiently. “Yeah, okay, why?”

“Because for some mysterious reason that for the life of me I can’t figure out: I trust you. Yer a good cop, Sam, and a decent man, when y’aren’t making a prat out of yourself or trading recipes with the wife. I trust you enough to help support the boy I believe to be your bastard son, money out my own pocket for that. I trust you enough to send Tony Crane up to the nut house on your word.” Gene leaned forward and punched the air in front of him. “Now. You trust _me._”

Sam looked darker and almost violent, vibrating on the cot with his indecision. Then he cocked his head. “That bike. You get it because I told you it was a good idea?”

“No. Missus got it without consulting me, a bad habit of hers I can’t seem to break. But her nephews got bikes, so she thought our Sammy should…”

“Your Sammy?” The darkness in Sam’s eyes faded as he tried not to smile.

“What she calls ‘im. Bein’ we’re childless, I think she’s takes it all a bit personally.” Gene kept studying him carefully.

Sam squinted, and Gene recognized the DI coming to the fore. “…Her nephews?”

Gene nodded, feeling old and slow. “Ralph. And James.”

Sam’s eyes went wide for a moment, and he shook his head, then looked intently at the wall. “It’s a long story, Gene.”

“I got all night.” Gene leaned back and crossed his feet.

Sam nodded in reply, then appeared to steel himself, sitting up straighter and planting his feet on the floor as he continued focusing on some mysterious spot on the wall. “My name is Sam Tyler. I had a car accident…”

**2007**  
Over a year later, Ruth was still angry, and still marched to the grave in defiance and pain. She carried the flowers like they were groceries, with no sentiment. She usually threw them down at Sam’s feet, far from his marker, far from his name. It never made her feel better and she always moved them to rest by his tombstone before she left.

She stopped a yard or so from the grave. An ancient, fragile woman stood there, shaking from palsy or just brittle nerves, who knew, but she was ghostly pale. Somewhere in her seventies, at least, and bent over like a witch in a children’s fairy tale. She wore thick black glasses and a proud mane of silvery hair which stuck out rebelliously from the twist someone tried to contain it in. She was talking, loudly, as if she could barely hear herself, and as Ruth walked up carefully behind her, she realized the woman was talking to Sam.

“So glad, so glad. I don’t blame you a bit, none of it. A better life back then, and my I do miss your chicken Florentine. Dinner every Friday, wasn’t it? Or…Thursday? Mmm…well Sammy and I guess you ARE Sammy or Sam now, I don’t know, I don’t know…I was just back from my friend June’s funeral, yeah? And walking by and here you are. My dear Sammy! Gene almost cried when you went into the service, he was so proud. Well, so were you, weren’t you? Did you go with us? I don’t remember. Oh, spying on our Sammy! You were always very naughty about that, Gene got SO mad…”

Ruth stepped forward. “Did you…did you know my son?” She gestured to the grave.

“Sam Tyler? As if he were my own. Worked with my husband, back in the day. They were good friends.”

“Oh. Sam Tyler? My son?” Ruth squinted, thinking that the poor old woman had gotten her Tylers mixed up. There were enough of them.

“Oh! See!” Shaking hands brought out a wallet and Ruth cringed to think she was now trapped at her son’s grave, forced to look at photos of this woman’s great grand children. It hurt, but she drew a deep breath and steadied herself, thinking that there was no cause to be rude to this poor, misguided old lady. “See them, there? That was Christmas of ’77, oh that was, such a wild year. And here, Gene and Sam at Annie’s promotion to DI…see? And there, Sam’s 50th/20th. Gene always sticking out his tongue…Oh, I miss my boys.”

Ruth stared at the photographs, dumbstruck. There was nothing to say, and nothing to question, and nothing to understand, there was only the deep, tranquil happiness in the eyes of the man in the photographs who could not possibly be her son.

###########


End file.
